


The Most Powerful Voice (The Improving the Silence Remix)

by ratherastory



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A remix of jennytork's <b>Silent Suffering</b>, in which Dean goes mute after ‘In My Time of Dying’ as a belated reaction to trauma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Powerful Voice (The Improving the Silence Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Silent Suffering](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3542) by jennytork. 



> Neurotic Author's Note #1: I’m posting this unbeta’d, at my own risk. I have what is probably an unhealthy fascination with mute!Dean, so I kind of jumped all over the fic when I saw it and possibly may have, erm, *cough* remixed it right the very second after I asked permission without actually waiting for said permission to be given. Um. Yeah.  
> Neurotic Author's Note #2: I have to apologize for just how angst-ridden this got. The original is much happier, and has the boys actually communicating using ASL, but I tried to keep it closer to canon, with Sam intuiting most of what Dean is communicating through his silence. Given that Sam puts everything through his built-in “it’s all my fault” filter, this necessarily went a little bit more emo than the original. Oof.

Dean is quiet, long after the pyre has ceased to burn, is nothing but a pile of ashes and charred wood and scorched bone. Sam tries to pull his brother away, but Dean stays in front of the smouldering remains until the first rays of the sun begin to creep up behind the trees, the sickly light casting long shadows through the bare branches and onto the ground, and refuses to be moved. Sam sighs quietly and stares at the agglomeration of embers and memories, which is all that is left of their father. Hunters begin and end in fire, he thinks. It’s true of their whole family, at least. Forged by fire, and tempered by blood. His brother is shivering, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. His recovery might be a miracle, but he’s only been out of the hospital for a day.

“Come on, Dean,” he says gently, the first words either of them has spoken aloud since Sam asked about their father’s last words. “We can’t stay here.”

Dean just nods, jerks his arm away when Sam tries to take him by the elbow to urge him toward the car. He leads the way, jaw set, teeth gritted, switches on the ignition of their stolen car. Sam barely has time to scramble into his customary spot in the passenger seat before they’re taking off again down the road. They don’t stop driving until the sun begins to set, when Dean pulls over abruptly, gets out and yanks the two duffel bags out of the trunk, tosses one at Sam.

“We’re seriously doing this here?” Sam is incredulous.

It’s cold out, it’s getting dark, and as far as he can tell they’re in the middle of nowhere. Sure, the car is stolen and they can’t keep it much longer, but he was at least hoping for them to stop somewhere near civilization. Dean glares, jerks his head at a sign on the road announcing that the next town is a mile away. They can run it in ten minutes, walk it in twenty.

“Fine,” Sam clenches his teeth, aware that he’s mimicking his brother in spite of himself.

Dean hangs back when they finally find a motel, and Sam is forced to step up to the counter, footsore and not a little pissed that his brother has apparently inherited all of their father’s extra paranoia upon his death. He puts down almost a quarter of their remaining cash for a room with two queens, and thinks ruefully that if they’d had to get gas today they’d probably be broke. Maybe that was why Dean left the car behind.

Dean doesn’t claim the privilege of the first shower so much as he just walks straight into the bathroom and locks the door behind him without even a grunt of acknowledgment. Sam sits on the bed, toes off his boots, listens to the rhythmic sound of water flowing through pipes, pattering against mould-stained tiles in the bathroom. When Dean comes out there’s no hot water left, and he just crawls into his bed and buries his face in his pillow without so much as looking at Sam. Sam heaves a long-suffering sigh and stretches out on his own bed, switches off the light. Neither of them get much sleep that night.

Sam manages to wake up early enough to have a quick shower before Dean, emerges to find his brother pulling on his boots.

“We going back to Bobby’s?” he asks. It’s a legitimate question. Bobby still has the Impala –or what’s left of her, anyway. Dean just shrugs, and Sam gets it. “I know it’s not exactly next door, but what choice do we have? We have next to no cash, no car, and nowhere else to go.”

He gets a nod in response, a one-shoulder shrug, and he tries not to worry about just how damned pale Dean is, the red scar livid on his forehead. It’s looking better than it was before, but that’s not saying much. Before, Dean was brain-dead, his basic bodily functions performed by machines.

“We should get breakfast. You look like shit,” Sam says, which translates from Winchester into English as ‘I’m worried about you.’

Dean charms the waitress without so much as opening his mouth. He gives her a wink, points a finger at her, handgun-style, when she mentions the morning special, and grins when she brings the pot of coffee. She blushes and giggles, even though Sam can see Dean’s heart isn’t in it, and brings Dean a free side-order of bacon. Sam does notice that his brother doesn’t so much as flash him the usual triumphant smirk that suggests he’d be able to get into her pants within the hour if he so chose. Instead he picks at his food, drains three cups of coffee before Sam half-jokingly tries to cut him off.

“Seriously, you’re going to spend the whole day peeing.”

Dean just wrinkles his nose, and lets the waitress refill his cup. This time, Sam thinks he doesn’t imagine the slight wince when his brother takes a sip of the near-scalding liquid, and he doesn’t know which of them is more startled when Dean whips his head aside to catch a sudden sneeze in the crook of his elbow. It would explain a lot, he thinks, if Dean’s getting sick.

“You’re coming down with something,” he says, waiting for confirmation. Dean shrugs. Neither confirm nor deny, Sammy. Same old M.O. Winchesters don’t admit sickness, because it’s perilously close to weakness, and that is tantamount to defeat.

They take a bus, and Dean suffers the insult to his manhood with an air of injured dignity. Sam keeps silent, takes the window seat because Dean always has to have the aisle seat: keeping himself between Sam and the rest of the world. It’s the way things have always been in their family, and doubtless always will be. To do otherwise would be to ask the grass to grow purple, the sky to turn fluorescent green. He watches the mileposts whiz by, bringing them closer to Sioux Falls, one by one. Dean falls asleep, breath wheezing almost imperceptibly, and Sam tries very hard not to worry.

By the time they get off the bus, they’re still forty miles from Sioux Falls, and Dean has developed a rattling cough that’s only getting worse with each passing hour. They’ve used up their last credit card getting them this far, and Sam figures they have maybe enough money to hole up for a day or so before they’ll be forced to press on. Maybe two days, if they stay in the cheapest shit-hole motel he can find, which doesn’t sound like that great of a prospect, if Dean is sick. They don’t have any cold meds on them. Not even aspirin. The first aid kit was in the trunk of the Impala, and even though most of their equipment survived, it’s all at Bobby’s.

Dean slumps on the ground by the phone booth while Sam rifles through the yellow pages looking for a cheap motel, head bowed, shivering even though he’s dressed in more layers than usual. He makes the barest of token protests when Sam pulls him to his feet by trying to jerk away. He’s sweating now, obviously running a fever, and the cough is even worse than before. Before they’re even halfway to the motel he’s listing a bit, leaning more heavily against Sam, who’s shouldered both their bags in an attempt to move a bit faster. The motel clerk doesn’t so much as blink when Sam puts down exactly enough money for a room, just hands him a key and mutters something insincere about enjoying their stay.

The room is a shit-hole: puke-green carpeting and brown and orange bedclothes in a pattern that wasn’t even popular in the seventies, which is when it looks to have been made. The bathroom reeks of bleach, which Sam figures is either a blessing or a sign that he shouldn’t be thinking too hard about the previous occupants. The room turns out to have only one king-sized bed in it, but they’re both past caring now. It’s not the first time they’ll have shared a bed, not even as adults, and it likely won’t be the last. He puts Dean to bed –or rather lets Dean lie down on his own, arms wrapped around his midsection, because Dean still won’t let him so much as touch him unless it’s absolutely necessary. Sam looks down at his brother, shivering on top of the blankets, still completely clothed, and wishes Dean would at least look at him, or acknowledge his presence. Hit him, or something. Anything.

He tugs the bedclothes down, heedless of his brother’s impatient squirming, pulls them back up and tucks them over Dean’s shoulders. He pats him on the arm once, halfway between affirmation and reassurance, heads out to the nearest drugstore for the cheapest generic cold medicine money can buy, as well as ibuprofen, then stops at a convenience store for some packets of instant soup and crackers, and a couple of pre-made sandwiches for himself. He hands over more of their dwindling supply of bills to an indifferent cashier, pockets the change without a word, heads back to the motel.

Dean is a living furnace. Face flushed, clothes soaked with sweat, he doesn’t even bother trying to pretend he’s not sick. He keeps his back turned, curled up in an almost foetal position on the bed, but he lets Sam prop him up and feed him water and pills and cough syrup, lies back down on his pillow and closes his eyes. Dean isn’t the one who’s been plagued with nightmares, and not even the high fever he’s running alters that, which Sam supposes is a mercy. He lies awake, listening to Dean cough in his sleep, and when he does manage to drift off himself, it’s only to awaken a couple of hours later to find his brother tucked in along his side, head wedged up by Sam’s shoulder. Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or burst into tears at the assurance –however unconscious– that his brother doesn’t hate him, and settles instead for staring at the ceiling.

In the morning Dean is worse, if anything. Sam sits next to him on the bed, watches daytime talk shows on the lowest possible volume so he can sleep as much as he can manage. He makes soup in the coffee pot provided by the motel, tries not to take it personally when Dean just coughs and twists away, back into his pillow. In the evening the fever is up but the cough seems better, and Dean doesn’t resist at all when Sam makes him drink an entire mug of soup and eat a couple of crackers before giving him more meds and tucking him back into bed. Sam spends the night dreaming of fire, and kicks off the blankets in the darkest hours because he’s convinced he’s burning alive. When he manages to shake off the remnants of the nightmare, he folds his share of the blankets over Dean’s sleeping form, then turns over and stares at the red numbers on the digital clock, ticking their way to sunrise.

They’re down to their last fifty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents. Sam makes more soup, watches to make sure his brother swallows it all, and checks his temperature by the expedient of brushing the back of his fingers against Dean’s forehead. They have no thermometer. Dean just rolls his eyes, but the fever is down, almost gone. They both sleep through the night this time.

He doesn’t bother with the television the next day, just sits in the rickety chair provided by the motel and waits for Dean to talk to him, but his brother doesn’t look at him. Sometime around mid-morning Dean pulls himself laboriously out of bed and hobbles, weak and stiff-muscled, into the bathroom to take a shower and shave. The room probably smells of sickness and sweat –they haven’t moved from there in over two days– and Sam wonders just how they’re going to manage to get the rest of the way to Bobby’s once they’ve paid for their extended stay in this shit-hole. He almost jumps out of his skin when his phone rings, holds his breath as he brings it to his ear.

“Sam?”

“Bobby, hey,” Sam’s voice cracks as he answers, startling him almost as much as the sound of the phone a moment earlier.

“Jesus, boy, you sound like crap. Where are you?”

It takes him a moment to find his motel key and check the name. “Dean’s been sick.”

“You too, by the sound of it.”

“I’m fine.”

“Like hell.”

Sam really is fine, though he can’t get Bobby to believe it. His voice is rough from disuse, nothing else. If not for Dean, there would be no reason to talk.

“You’re not all that far from here. I could have come to get you, you know.”

“We can make it.”

“That’s not the point, you idjit!” Bobby is exasperated. “I’ll come pick you boys up in a couple of hours. Put your brother on the line.”

Dean steps out of the bathroom at that moment, but he shakes his head when Sam mouths ‘Bobby’ at him and motions to him to take the phone. “Uh, he’s in the shower. Thanks, Bobby. For… y’know.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Bobby grumbles. “And you can tell your brother that you’re both lousy liars.” The line goes dead, leaving Sam staring sheepishly at his phone as the luminous display switches off, the light fading into black.

“Bobby’s coming to pick us up.”

Dean nods, sits back down on the bed, legs trembling a bit from the unaccustomed exertion.

“You okay?”

Dean gives him a flat look, and Sam ducks his head to stare at the ugly green carpet. He gets it: there aren’t any words. Not in all the languages in the whole world. No words, no comfort, no solace. He bites his lip, stares out the window at the sun shining down on the brittle autumn, and wonders if he should feel grateful, in the midst of all of this, that Dean is sticking around at all. Because this? Is more than he deserves. He stares out the window, and finds himself thinking of their father, an incongruous memory of a week spent in silence after Dean got in trouble for going to an arcade and leaving Sam all alone in their room, without even the hum of the radio to break the unaccustomed stillness in the car. He risks a glance at Dean, sitting on the bed, fingers tightly laced, hands clasped between his knees, head bowed, and remembers a lifetime of talking punctuated by weeks of mutism, when things would get bad.

Dean doesn’t move, and Sam’s tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth.


End file.
